Stomatopod on the Barbee........(what?)....kronk

The atmosphere was clear, the temperature about 55 degrees and a light to moderate offshore breeze was blowing. A fine late November morning to be sure. The big center console jumped on plane and we raced down the channel, at 50mph, towards the gulf.

Off near the end of the east jetty a 70 foot shrimp boat had run afoul of the rocks. "Probably got caught in that storm a couple of days ago. Run on down there Puke, and let's have a look." The trawler's stern lay on bottom in about 40 feet of water at the base of the jetty. Her bow and some of the forward cabin were visible, being supported by the huge boulders and granite rocks that comprised the massive foundation of the jetty wall. As I approached the wreck, the smell of diesel fuel filled my nostrils and an oily sheen encompassed the area. Crown Royal tied a bowline and looped it over one of the shrimpers mooring bits. "Cut the engine Puke, I want to listen to the sounds." I was a little aggravated, wanting to be on my way. "What sounds are you taking about Royal?" He held up his hand and shushed me. "Listen man can't you hear?" Straining my ears, and regulating my breathing, after a moment I actually heard faint sounds that appeared to be coming from the wreck. The water lapping on the motionless hull, the creaking of the boom, it's set of trolling boards hoisted high. "Probably for increased stability during the storm," Royal offered. And even in the calm seas, the oh so slight grinding and groaning coming from deep inside the hapless trawler. Tiny bubbles popped to the surface in several places, a radio microphone dangled to and fro every so often striking the cracked windshield. The boom on the opposite side of the boat was barely visable, every now and then the tip section broke the surface with a slight slurping noise.

Crown Royal and I sat there listening to the sounds for several minutes. I mumbled a little prayer, "Oh Lord God, save and protect we who go to the sea in ships, large and small. Amen." Royal flipped the loop off the trawlers bit and I idled away. The sea was a wonderful, beautiful thing, but she could be very unforgiving.

The Gulf of Mexico lay calm before us. The big V-6 came to life and had us tooling along at good speed over the glittering water. At about 15 miles out, the offshore wind fought free of the lands effect and seas built up to about 3 feet. Royal tweeked the trim tabs and got another couple of mph. We rode with the wind. At 30 miles, the chop was a little more than we cared to deal with,so we chose to tie up behind one of the numerous oil drilling platforms in the area. I eased up to the rig on the downwind side and Royal hooked a cross-member. The triple one-inch bungee cord absorbed the 3-4 foot chop and the big boat settled quietly in the lee of one of the massive platform legs.

. As I was applying my sun screen, Royal lowered a 6"x3" chunk of frozen ladyfish over the side, paying out line to get to the bottom some 60 feet down and under the boat. Before I even grabbed my own pole, he was fast to something big and powerfull. "Out the way Puke, I've got a hoss here. YEEEHAWWWHH." His 8.5 foot meat stick had a dangerous looking bend to it. He appeared to be having difficulty hanging on. Whatever was down there was changing directions rapidly. I tied a life jacket to the rig hook line, tossed it over and motored away from the rig. Safely away from the barnacle encrusted legs of the platform, the battle continued in earnest. Royal tried to bully the catch but met with little success. He groaned," Puke, hurry up with that rod belt, this thing is trying to make me another belly-button." I dug the belt out of storage and Royal shifted the butt to his left thigh just above the knee to fascilitate my putting the belt around his mid-section. This phase went well and I got the belt secured around his waist. The trouble came during the transfer of the rod butt from thigh to the cup. The quarry chose that precise time to surge wildly and Crown Royal took the force of the fully loaded rod directly in the groin. His feet left the deck, his eyes crossed and he fell heavily. Had the fishing rod been anything but solid fiber-glass, it would have surely been destroyed. Crown Royal lay moaning, the rod and reel still clutched beneath him, the rod tip extended over the transom some 3 feet was bent horribly, but the 130 lb test line refused to break.

The quarry, possibly sensing confusion topside, took full advantage of the situation and launched a fierce counterattack. Crown Royal, still on his belly, refused to release the tackle and was being dragged slowly towards the transom. He cried weakly, "Puke, Puke, take this rod before that thing kills me." Even though I knew that I should try to help him, I was laughing so hard that I nearly lost my breath. Finally realizing that as long as I watched the pitifull drama I would be rendered helpless, I tore my eyes away for a few seconds and regained my composure. Stripping him of the rod belt, I fastened it around my waist, then pryed the outfit out from underneath him. The poor guy rolled over into a fetal position.

The thing on the end of the line made a couple of strange surging runs, then appeared to give up and I gained line rapidly. A 100 feet away, I caught sight of something long and brown colored only a couple of feet below the surface swimming rapidly towards the boat. Fifty feet away the creature sounded again and I wrestled the thing straight up and down under the boat for about 5 minutes. Then it shot for the surface with me cranking madly. I called to Crown Royal, who had by now graduated into a weak sitting position, massaging his sore groin,"Quick man, get the gaff, I've got it coming up." Royal grabbed the long handle gaff just as the double line appeared.He limped, weakly, to the gunnel. "Watch it," I called ,"looks like it's gonna jump."

The line went slack and I stumbled backwards just as two large, stalked eyes appeared over the side of the boat. "Yeaaah," Crown Royal dropped the gaff and backed up and around the console to the bow. Two large claws clamped onto the side of the boat digging an inch or so into the fiberglass. The eyes as big as softballs twisted and turned in their sockets. Using it's many lesser appendages, the huge Mantis Shrimp inched it's way further up and over the side of the boat. When the great claws came clear, the creature flicked out it's yard long raptor-like knives from underneath. The awfull clicking sound paralyzed me with fear. I watched one of the knives go clean through one side of the center console. Unable to retract that weapon, the shrimp flailed away with the other blade and crawled further into the boat.

I lay in the bottom of the boat frozen with fear. Unable to move a muscle, and thinking, "What a way to go, impaled and eaten by a giant shrimp." I watched the monster drag it's last few feet into the boat. The great eyes seemed to revolve and focus on me. The knife that was hung in the center console was torn free and the beast looked about to spring. Then, two deafening blasts from Royal's 10 gauge mag shotgun and the creatures head evaporated. Viscous fluids and shell flew in all directions. The noise brought me out of my physical paralysis and I ran to join Royal on the bow. He kept the shrimp covered until all movement ceased.

The creature measured just over 9 feet in lenght with a girth of 84 inches. Back at the docks, we peeled the thing and ended up with 179 lbs of tail and 20 lbs of claw meat. Royal pounded on Hurricane Angelena's door and called,"Hey Momma, call them boys and girls from the "Unsolved Mysteries Site." Tell em we're gonna have "Shrimp on the Barbee" tonight. Don't forget to bring the lemonade."

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